


We Could Leave Tonight

by WillBusiga



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:52:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillBusiga/pseuds/WillBusiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal ponders his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Could Leave Tonight

“We could leave tonight.”

The closest to begging Hannibal will ever get; this warning of a forced hand. Will had dug the blade into himself by not expecting this, which his own sense of self-preservation would rear against any ideal plans of a man to hold; two fathers and a daughter on a villa somewhere where the air is more exquisite to breathe. He feels foolish, almost, because without this sacrifice and punishment he would have given everything for nothing of the portrait he’d been paining his entire life.  
Will Graham was not a destroyer of man, but of worlds and palaces. Hannibal can feel the room Will resides in the palace of his mind. It’s burning and quaking all at once; threatens the foundation of the entirety of the earth’s crust it’s built on. Necessary, lest he left with nothing but a common man’s regrets.

Hannibal, for a moment, has a startling vision of Will in his own home as he left him. Can taste and smell the blood of so many, and can see the stag taking its last breaths as if he were Will. The empathy is startling enough to cause a misstep in his footing. He   
feels like Will Graham’s mind had flown his own body and slithered around Hannibal. It’s fleeting, the echo of “See? See?” ringing desperate before there is nothing but the crickets of the night. 

Will Graham was never a man he thought was simple, and Hannibal can remember clear the display he made of Randall. He saw Will’s dark swan’s wings spread and had a moment of fear that his own wingspan would never compete. A moment of seeing a future where those wings blocked the light and freedom of the day and his own arms were too heavy with awe to lift. Eroticism and terror.

Achilles and Patroclus required divine intervention to bring down; here it was the same. Hannibal tapped into his own God-hood to pry their souls apart with the edge of a smooth boning knife as his anointed weapon. He can still feel the give of Will’s roughened skin if he concentrates. It’s all at once bitter and pleasant on his tongue. 

He won’t regret anything, never has, but the tugging of his heart is his own punishment. Will’s was Abigail’s second death. Was Hannibal’s own last sweet caress before the reality of the knife. It felt like he had cut them both from a dream cloud.   
Hannibal takes to pursing his lip in mild frustration as his mind works, wondering if this stale heavy feeling in his chest will remain with him as long as the faint scent of Will does. It’s a shame their time ended so soon after he changed to more pleasantly scented soaps, colognes and after shaves. Hannibal might have enjoyed being enveloped by that scent. The earthiness suited Will. 

He reasons that a wall can never be removed from a structure without damage to what it is connected to. Hannibal’s body is left as it was before, perhaps a few bruises but those will fade easily with time; his body will forget the damage. Hannibal’s heart, however, will remember the first injury delivered to it in years. It seems far too tragic to be real, like a Shakespearean play where everyone dies to leave family to suffer. If he was not a lover of new experiences and fine workmanship, Hannibal might wish he could have walked past Will like he did Alana. 

She was a pleasant songbird that served her purpose for the time he had her. Not unpleasant, but nothing to shed a tear over when its voice stopped and it dropped, wings splayed, to the bottom of a confining cage as if to take flight one last time.  
Will was achingly different, an entity as damaging as the wind, turning a section of Hannibal’s heart to desert. Eroded and itchy where he could not soothe. Not looking at Will was like blocking out the entirety of the sky; even Hannibal had limits in his self-control.

He knows that the aching feeling is a need, one he hasn’t felt in so long it’s almost a new sensation. He appreciates will’s power here, in his own head. He finds it amusing that Will had placed himself in Hannibal’s body as omnipresent instead of taking Hannibal’s consciousness into himself. 

Right now, whether Will’s body is in the ground or a hospital bed, he will linger in his mind. Hannibal closes his eyes, knowing that the shadows in the corner of his eyes are Will. His roughened hands tracing along his books like he used to.   
He opens his mouth; it’s wide and surrounded by the lovely pink of his lips.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

His eyes sting only for a moment.


End file.
